Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~2500 words. Mobster!AU.
That’s some kind of divine comedic twist there, the dirty smudge of his fingerprints on Adam’s soul, and St. Pete can go fuck his pearly gates, heaven is right fucking here in Adam’s sweet vermouth mouth.
Finding Adam in the back room, still dressed to the nines in the snazzy suit he wore during his set, flushes Tommy’s heart straight down the sewer. He looks good sitting there on the scuffed black couch, ankle on a knee, tumbler in one hand, ice clinking. Real good.
The gun in Tommy’s hand burns like fresh-made sin. Jacket abandoned at the table, sleeves rolled up and holster naked against the white of his shirt, but nobody thought once about keeping him out of here. “This shit was easier when we weren’t friends.”
“We’re friends?” Adam asks, eyebrows arched. “Sorry. I couldn’t tell.”
“Oh, now we’re using first names.” Leaning forward, Adam sets the dregs of his drink down on the squat table. Like he’s still on stage, his elbows settle on his knees, his fingers lace in front of his mouth. Things way down low in Tommy’s belly tighten. “Do you get this close with everybody you shake down?”
“This ain’t my call,” Tommy says, anger flaring hotter than lust, and burning out again so much faster. He’s fucking tired of this shit. “You took the loan. You knew the terms.”
Adam smiles, a resigned quirk of lips half-hidden by his hands. “So now what? I can’t pay. Are you gonna hurt me, Tommy Joe?” He spreads his arms, brings Tommy’s gaze skipping up to the battered brick walls plastered with playbills, the photographs pinned beside them. “Burn my place down and collect the insurance?”
Worse than the thick rasp of disappointment in Adam’s voice is his flinch when Tommy steps away from the door. Fear, plain and simple, like a stray cat kicked once too often. Fear for the hardware in Tommy’s hand, his willingness to use it. Adam’s seen him put a bullet in a man before.
“Not my money,” Tommy repeats. “Not my call.”
“Except you’re the one who’s here.”
Striding across the room, gun a cold black glint, Tommy would relish the sharp twist of fear on Adam’s face this time if it didn’t make his stomach lurch and burn like somebody’s shoved tar down his throat. “So fucking smart, huh, what’s that tell you?” Adam jumps when he slams the gun down on the table. “What’s that fucking tell you?”
Not glancing up from the gun, Adam asks, “Why’d you buy me that drink the other night?”
“Looked like you coulda used it.”
Something in Tommy’s words, or maybe his tone, makes Adam settle back into the cushions, drape his arm along the back of the couch. For a long, long time, too long, he watches Tommy silently, like he’s waiting for the answer he wanted instead to come swimming up to the surface. “Is that why you kissed me, thought I could’ve used it?”
There’s no answer there. Not one Adam wants to hear, or one Tommy wants to give. “They were gonna send Frankie,” he says.
“I like Frankie,” Adam says, not getting it at all.
“Jesus.” Yanking off his hat, Tommy tosses it to the table on top of his gun, drags a hand back through his hair. Everybody loves Frankie, because the people who don’t aren’t people anymore. “You’re so fucking naïve sometimes. This whole dream you’re trying to build here is gonna go up in smoke.”
When Adam says, “I’ve got more dreams,” Tommy doesn’t buy it. Adam’s heart is right there on his fucking pinstripe sleeve, and this is his last chance. There’s no more money. When the mob’s through with him, no bank from here straight to California is gonna look at him twice. “I’ve got this one that won’t leave me alone. Keeps showing up on my doorstep looking drop-dead gorgeous and really, really bad for me.”
Swallowing down the bitter burn at the back of his throat, Tommy asks, pleads in a way he hasn’t ever before, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
That same sly quirk comes creeping in on Adam’s face, that one that had started on his mouth when Tommy offered to kiss it for him, slipped straight into his eyes when he licked bourbon off Tommy’s lips. “Putting down the gun was a good start.”
“This ain’t a joke. If it’s not me, it’s-”
“But it is you.” Adam’s smile widens as Tommy bites back a curse. “C’mere, Tommy Joe. Kiss away my dreams for me.”
Tommy’s moving before he’s thinking, dropping onto the couch with his knees straddling Adam’s thighs, his fingers sliding into Adam’s hair, messing up its perfect glossy sheen. That’s some kind of divine comedic twist there, the dirty smudge of his fingerprints on Adam’s soul, and St. Pete can go fuck his pearly gates, heaven is right fucking here in Adam’s sweet vermouth mouth.
“This is what I want you to do,” Adam says, words a slither of breath between kisses, hands on Tommy’s hips dragging him in closer. Beneath the lines of his suit, Adam’s body is hard in all the right places, one place in particular that Tommy’s hands gravitate toward, framing the shape of his dick going even thicker, hotter. Whatever else Adam wants, and tries to tell Tommy all about, is lost in a gasp as Tommy jerks him through the barrier of his pants, fumbling at the zip to get them open at the same time.
Maybe it was, “Easy, Tommy Joe, easy,” since that’s what Adam’s saying now, but fuck easy. Nothing about any of this is easy. From the first night Tommy set eyes on Adam’s smile, he knew this was going to be the fucking hardest thing he’s ever done in a life filled with things that should’ve been hard, would’ve made a better man flinch. When he finally gets Adam’s cock out, though, curved right there long and heavy in his palm, he hesitates. It’s a fucking dick and he wants to kiss it, taste it like he’s tasted Adam’s mouth, lick it wet so it slips into his hands as easy as all the other sins he’s already claimed as his own.
Adam’s curses echo sharp and shocking over Tommy’s head as he sinks down to the floor between wide-spread legs. That gets him closer to what he wants, but not so much what he wants to do. Anybody ever finds out he came in here and stuck Adam’s dick in his mouth instead of putting the fear of a god Tommy doesn’t believe in into him with old tired threats, he’s finished. They’re both fucking finished.
But Adam’s looking at him like he’s got a gun to Adam’s head anyway, and Adam’s slit hot and wet against his thumb feels better than a pistol hammer ever did. He licks his thumb first, Adam’s groan ratcheting down his spine notch by notch, then the head, surprised by the soft give against his tongue. He licks harder, sucks it a bit, translating what feels good when his own dick is in his hand to Adam’s in his mouth, constant pressure and pull that makes his jaw ache.
“God, wait,” Adam says, gorgeous voice a rasp, and Tommy tries to take more instead, spurred on in a way he doesn’t understand, probably never will. He gets as far as Adam’s cock only brushing the back of his throat before he chokes and has to pull off, coughing so hard his ribs creak. “Baby,” Adam says, and he’s gonna say more, Tommy’s sure of it, but Tommy starts to laugh through his choking, mean and rough.
“I’m gonna ruin your life,” Tommy croaks, wiping at his mouth with the back of one wrist. “I’m gonna burn it all to ashes at your feet, and you’re calling me baby.”
Adam traces the slant of Tommy’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, grazes past his temple up into his hair. Not so sure he likes the thrill of being on his knees, face exposed where Adam’s pushed his hair back, Tommy pulls away. “Don’t,” Adam says, tightening his grip. “Don’t do that to me.”
Either one Adam’s talking about, burning his place down or pulling free of his grip, Tommy doesn’t have a choice. There’s a way things have got to go, and it ain’t easy or soft like Adam’s kisses.
“I want to see you,” Adam says, holding tighter as he tugs one-handed at the buttons on Tommy’s shirt. Tommy still hasn’t moved by the time Adam hits the bottom and his shirt is gaping open, nothing underneath but bare skin because it’s August in the city, air thick enough with heat to walk up through it to the smoggy clouds. When he leans down to get at Tommy’s fly, it’s Tommy’s turn to tell him to wait, and Adam smiles and kisses him instead, deep and endless as he tugs open Tommy’s pants, tugs them down, bares Tommy to his gaze in a long line from throat to thigh.
Tommy’s never been dizzied by lust in his life, and now it feels like the whole world’s spun off its axis. The moment Adam touches him, big hand wrapped strong and confident around his dick, a groan bursts free of his chest. He rocks forward on his knees, thrusting into Adam’s grip, groaning again when it stutters dry and riding the edge of perfect. He’s not thinking much when he spits into his own hand, pushes Adam’s out of the way to slick his cock wet. He’s not thinking at all when he grabs Adam’s wrist, shoves his dick back into Adam’s grip.
Laughing low in his throat, Adam gives him one long pull, then another, one more to make him moan before starting to jack him slow and lazy. Trying to get Adam to move faster only gets him a hand wrapped around the back of his neck pulling him up for more kisses, syrup-thick and sweet. The spit on his hand has long since dried by the time he gets it back on Adam’s cock, but there’s some slick at the slit still, more when he rubs around and over it with his thumb, smearing it down to try returning the favour. His coordination is shit, though, and there’s no way he’s going to get Adam off as long as Adam’s hands are on him.
“Quit fighting me,” Adam says, biting hard at his jaw.
Easy as you please, Adam says, “You are,” and shoves Tommy back so hard the table goes skidding sideways. Aiming to catch himself on one elbow, Tommy doesn’t get the chance before Adam’s slid down off the couch after him, shoving him again so his shoulder hits the cold concrete floor, his legs trapped beneath Adam’s bulk. Over a decade of living in men’s shadows, of knowing you’re finished when they finally beat you down to the ground, Tommy bucks and twists and scrabbles for the gun on the table.
Adam says, “I’m not like them, not gonna hurt you,” with his hand clamped to Tommy’s jaw, forcing him back to kiss the promise into his mouth. “Let me, let me,” he saying like a prayer, the wet slap of flesh on flesh, Tommy’s cock in his hand, instead of the clink of rosary beads filling the space between them. Tommy twists up off the floor again, towards instead of away, grabbing at the front of Adam’s shirt, silk crushed and ruined by the sweat on his palms, the precome slicking his fingers. He’s moaning high and loud in his throat, he can hear it same as he can hear Adam’s whispered praises wound between, stupid pointless things about how he’s beautiful like this, how Adam wants to see him come, be the one to make him lose control.
No choice left, he does. Pleasure peaks and punches out of him on another one of those hurt-sounding noises swallowed up a moment later by Adam’s mouth on his. He can’t move while orgasm’s riding him, can’t think past how good it is, and when he finally can again, Adam’s cock is the first thing he goes for, stunned and clumsy but wanting so much.
Adam doesn’t tell him easy this time. He’s as desperate for it as Tommy is, more even, hand braced beside Tommy’s head and face pressed to his neck as Tommy jerks him, so little space between them now that Tommy’s wrist is skidding through the come on his belly. He pushes Adam’s dick into the mess, coats his hand in the thin trails tickling down his side, and jerks harder, faster, trying to shred the breaths puffing hot against his throat to ribbons.
Nicely cliché, Adam moans his name when he comes, and the sound of it, ruined and honest, is going to haunt Tommy to his grave.
“Fuck.” Digging the heel of a hand against his eye, Tommy drags in a shuddering breath. It reeks of sex, of Adam. He tries to shove Adam off but he’s too heavy, holding Tommy down by one wrist, all along his lower body like he’s lashed to an anchor dragging him below the surface. “Fuck, fuck, you gotta get off me, get the fuck offa me.”
“No, baby,” Adam says, smiling down at him. So fucking stupid, that satisfied, alley-cat smile. There’s nothing here for Adam to be smug about. “Not until you get that look off your face like you’re gonna shoot yourself with your own gun.”
“Might as fucking well,” Tommy groans, a miserable, helpless sound he’s heard a hundred times before, but never spilling out of his own throat. Dead man walking, because he can’t do it. They know he’s not gonna do it. “I fucked up. ‘Sposed to light this place tomorrow when Raja’s performing, ’cause you’re always here when she does, and I fucking can’t.”
“It’s alright,” Adam says, still smiling, and Tommy wants to wipe that look off his face so bad his knuckles are itching.
“It’s not fucking alright. They wouldn’t fucking take the chance if they needed you alive to collect on the insurance. Do you get that? Don’t you fucking see it?” Shoving at Adam’s shoulder doesn’t budge him an inch. It feels good though and Tommy shoves him again, slams the flat of his fist down like he’s maybe trying to get Adam to move still. He’s not. The thud of knuckles into flesh is solid and warm and real, and he needs that. Needs Adam alive.
Adam lets him get away with it once more before the grabs onto Tommy’s hand, flattens it out and pins it. “It’s alright, Tommy Joe.”
“They’ll gun you down in the street if you’re not in here when it goes up,” Tommy says, voice flat, as dead as they’re both gonna be come the end of the week. “They’re gonna know I flew right in here to sing on your fucking knee.”
“Doesn’t matter if they do.” Letting go of Tommy’s hand, Adam lays his palm-flat across Tommy’s mouth to shut him up. “You’re not my only friend, y’know.”
Shaking off Adam’s hand, Tommy asks, “What-?”
This time, Adam hushes him up with a kiss. “I’m gonna get both of us through this. And you, pretty bird,” Adam says, smiling again, pressing it to Tommy’s cheek so he can feel the warmth in it sinking through skin, “then you’re gonna fly away with me.”